The Take(29)

“Sure,” she said, moving to the door. “Maybe tomorrow…or the next day.”

Dumont stood. “This afternoon.”

“But, Commissaire, I told you…”

“Especially given your current status.” Dumont stared at her for as long as it takes a spark to die, then returned his attention to Simon. “As I said, Nikki would be more than happy to speak with you.”

Nikki Perez ran an exasperated hand through her hair, sighing for dramatic effect, before looking Simon’s way. “All right, then, let’s go.”

Simon thanked Dumont all too quickly, hurrying to catch the detective at the elevator, sliding in as the doors closed.

“Still here?” she said.

“Like gum on your shoe.”

“More like something else. Come on. I need a coffee.”

She was first out of the elevator and made a beeline through the reception area and out the front doors. She took the stairs two at a time and turned right once she hit the sidewalk. Simon turned left.

“Hey,” she called. “This way.”

“I know a better place.” He continued up the Quai des Orfèvres. After a moment, he heard her footsteps behind him.

“Fifteen minutes,” she said. “That’s all I have for a ‘friend of the PJ.’”

“More than I need.”

Simon turned onto a street lined with cafés and restaurants. Waiters wearing white aprons stood on the sidewalk next to chalkboards advertising daily specials. The Notre-Dame was a few blocks away and its towers loomed over the rooftops.

He cut into an alley and opened the back door of an unmarked building. A spiral staircase led to a coffee bar on the first floor. Locals sat at tables lining the wall. Simon walked to the counter. “One espresso and one…”

“Café crème.” Nikki took a tobacco tin from her pocket and opened it. Inside were rolling papers and a lighter. She began fashioning a cigarette. “I’m impressed,” she said. “You know Julien’s.”

“I was at school here for a year.”

“Sorbonne?”

“Sciences Po. I studied mathematics.”

“That must have been a while ago.”

“Ten years.”

“That’s all?” she asked with sarcasm.

“I started late.”

Nikki flicked her tongue across the paper and sealed the cigarette. Simon plucked it out of her hand. “Hey,” she protested, throwing out a hand to grab the cigarette back.

“Foul habit.”

“You have some nerve!”

He looked at his watch. “Eight more minutes. I think you can wait that long.”

The barman placed the demitasses of espresso and coffee on the counter. Simon sipped his slowly. He was remembering his year at the Sciences Po, the nation’s elite business university. He’d come to earn a master’s in mathematics after finishing his undergraduate degree in London. He’d lived in a fourth-floor walk-up in Montmartre and worked nights and weekends doing odd jobs to cover living expenses.

Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.

It had all been part of the monsignor’s plan for him. Yeats by way of a jail yard priest.

“Five minutes, Mr. Riske.”

Simon finished his espresso. “I need everything you have on three people. Paul Modriani, Salvatore Brigantino, and Tino Coluzzi.”

“You’ve narrowed down your list.”

“I hope that helps.”

Nikki set her elbows on the counter. “Modriani ran things five years ago, but he’s retired. He has a restaurant in Lyon, where he spends his time. You can forget him. I haven’t heard anything about Brigantino for years. His son manages a casino in the Bois de Boulogne. Gambling’s not my jurisdiction. I heard Coluzzi’s name a year ago in connection with a theft of a shipment of prescription medication—OxyContin, opioids, something like that. Nothing since. He’s probably back down south. Now it’s your turn.”

“Like I told Commissaire Dumont, I’m looking for something valuable that was stolen from my client.”

“And a little birdie whispered in your ear that it was stolen by one of these men.”

“Exactly.”

“What is it that you’re looking for?”

“A letter.”

“You’re serious? What are you going after next?” she asked with a smirk. “A pen?”

“They didn’t take the pen,” said Simon.

“Very funny,” said Nikki. “If you know so much already, why do you need me?”

“Reliability. Confirmation.”

“You dragged me away from the biggest theft in the last six months to find a letter?” She looked at the ceiling, shaking her head. “I know what you are, coming here in your expensive suit and your expensive shoes, calling in a favor from the commissaire. You’re a fixer. The guy that does somebody else’s dirty work. The commissaire told me about your last job—finding the runaway heiress who’d fallen in love with her coke dealer. Classy. What is it this time? Tracking down an incriminating letter one of your rich friends dashed off to his much younger girlfriend? Well, then. Another worthy cause for the Paris police. At least I don’t have to worry about being shot.”